Those Sweet Summer Days
by sliver of time
Summary: AU: Robert Baratheon is as competent a king as he was a fighter. After striking down Rhaegar Targaryen at the Battle of the Trident, he ascended to the throne and has reigned prosperously through the time known as the Long Summer. But dark wings bring dark tidings, and all summers must end.
1. The Calm

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to A Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire-all are properties of George R. R. Martin.

Those Sweet Summer Days: Part I

The Calm

The air screamed as the Warhammer skidded off the golden shield that had been raised to meet it. Flecks of gold flew into the air like autumn leaves in a storm, glimmering like falling stars as the rays of the setting sun danced upon each piece. A blade darted out, faster than a Dornish viper, intent on capitalizing on the other man's failure to knock the golden knight out. The knight grinned as his blade struck true.

"The bout is mine, your highness" the knight said with a grin and a mocking bow as the flecks of gold settled around him.

The man holding the Warhammer rubbed his arm and then laughed, a deep boisterous laughter that was echoed in the stands of the local nobility, as he placed his Warhammer down. The knight, gleaming in the evening's embrace with a suit that looked to be pure gold and a cape that was as fresh as newly fallen snow, widened his eyes in surprise. He glanced at a short, stocky man standing alone in the crowd idly swirling about a burnt amber colored liquid in a silver goblet, before cautiously asking "What could possibly be so funny that Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, et cetera, would be in such good cheer after losing a spar?"

The king, his hair black as coal and eyes like charcoal, flashed a smile towards the knight. "Why, I'm just remembering the last time a Lannister bowed to me with flecks of gold in her hair." He winked as he addressed the crowd, "I hope you're not planning on another bedding ceremony!" The king laughed with the crowd as Jaime patted his hair and looked quizzically at the king. Robert just shook his head and waved over his squire as he began ambling towards the stands, driblets of sweat falling from his beard and watering the soil beneath him.

The beads sparkled like glass globes as they crashed with nary a sound, fading as quickly as they came. The ground greedily gobbled up the moisture, the abnormally long summer having dried out Kings Landing to the bone. Even in the fading light of the day the heat caused ripples to form above the sands, twisting like a thousand coiled snakes. The king frowned towards the ground, his former good cheer evaporating as quickly as his sweat.

The squire carried with him two skins of water filled near bursting, and demurely handed one to the king before approaching Jaime. The squire, in clothes of burnt crimson emblazoned with a roaring lion smiled, golden hair glinting in the failing light, as he tossed the second skin over. "Well done cousin! Beating the king is no easy feat, I know—" he paused abruptly as Jaime stuck out his hand and glowered. "Why is everyone laughing at me?" Jaime nearly snarled; as the golden lion he was quite unused to ridicule. He found that he very much did not like the sensation.

Lancel gulped, his eyes twitching back and forth as he sought to extricate himself from the situation. Just as he opened his mouth to throw out an excuse, a teasing voice cut in, "Why Jaime, I never knew you had the same stylist as our dearest sister. I must say, those golden flecks truly do make your hair shine. And those smudges on your face, why you make me wonder if there's truth to the saying that Lannisters shit gold! Have you been talking to father recently?" A small imp, dressed in a fine golden brown doublet, meandered towards the two with an easy smile upon his face. His mismatched eyes glittered with amusement as he took a deep drink from his goblet.

Jaime's clouded visage cleared as he laughed, his temper fading away like a spring shower. Flashing a dazzling smile at his brother he called out, "Well if it isn't my favorite little brother! I'm touched that you would take time away from the brothels to watch me train with the king. Surely the whores must be at a loss without their most frequent customer!"

Tyrion grinned back, "Well, I'm your only little brother. It's hardly a competition to be the favorite, now is it?" He took another long drink from his goblet, tilting it so the final drops would ease their way to his dry throat. "And besides, these bouts only happen once a month, I could hardly afford to miss a chance at seeing my brother in action." His emerald eye sparkled, "The ladies will have to be satisfied with lesser fares tonight."

Jaime clasped a hand on his brother's shoulders as they began walking back towards the keep, the parched earth cracking under every step. A trail of dust followed the two lions as easy banter flew between them. In the distance, the great sept's bells began to toll, the clear, ringing tones blanketing the city, signaling the end of the day. It was the very height of summer, the previous winter being barely more than a memory. Yet it is said in the north that Winter is Coming… and sooner or later the Stark words always ring true.

As the bell rang for the final time, a patch of darkness deeper than its surroundings landed in the maesters tower and let out a piercing cry. Tied to its legs was a letter sealed by the visage of a howling wolf.

* * *

I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this. I had an inclination to write today, despite my propensity to merely read, and satisfied it. Hopefully I will continue writing this as the new season of Game of Thrones continues. Any feedback, especially that for grammatical/spelling corrections, a different way of painting the scenes, diction, etc. is highly welcome! No beta, written in an hourish... so don't be too harsh :)


	2. Before the Storm

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to A Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire-all are properties of George R. R. Martin. This is merely for my own entertainment.

Those Sweet Summer Days: Part I

Before the Storm

The grand maester felt his knees creak as he stood and glared balefully at the stairway that had lead up to the raven's rook. His hair, as white as clean linen and soft as downy feathers, barely covered the crown of his head and his face was etched with deep lines and creases. As the freshly lit torches flickered, shadows danced across the mountains and valleys of Pycelle's face; age apparent in every wrinkle.

'Soon, I will need to call upon the council to appoint me an aide.' The wizened old man frowned, 'fifty odd years I've served the realm and I've never needed help before.' His grip tightened upon an intricately carved oaken staff, its head the shape of a roaring lion with eyes made of rubies. His gaze lingered on a note written in his own hand, laying still upon a slightly crooked elm table, addressed to the council of maesters in Oldtown. The maester closed his eyes for a moment before nodding, seemingly reaching some agreement with himself. 'Not today' he thought as he began shambling towards the cages, back bowed beneath the weight of twenty plus coiled links.

Each link shined in a different color beneath the evening sun, each representing a mastery of a different subject. There was silver for medicine, iron for war, gold for finance, and the crown jewel—valyrion steel for the higher mysteries. As Pycelle gathered the messages and tended to the ravens, he reminisced on a time before the rebellion, to a time when he was still forging his links. Those days were long past and under another king, yet looking out over the city, draped by rays of gold and clouds of amber, he mused it was hard to tell that a dynasty hundreds of years old had fallen.

Scrolls in hand, he began his trek back towards his quarters, chain rattling with every stumbling footfall. Its echo bounced along the curved arches and brick walls, and in that moment he believed he could be the only man in the Red Keep. But soon enough the moment passed, as the sounds of the keep began to filter towards him. The air was alight with the tinkling laughter of maids, raucous boasting of squires, and the clashing of steel from the training grounds. A wrinkled smile appeared on his face then, and his back straightened imperceptibly. For all of his failures, he had at least managed to do one great thing in his life. He had saved the Red Keep.

The smile remained with him even as he passed an open terrace upon which the queen stood. In gentle caress of the oceans breeze and the soft rays of the setting sun, her hair appeared to be a crown of liquid gold, and her emerald gown waved like the grassy meadows of the River Lands. About her neck lay a double strand of milky pearls, idly played with by an immaculate hand, nails painted in the colors of winter roses.

Pycelle bowed to the two kingsguard standing vigil before the archway before softly murmuring "your grace" as he came to stand next to her. Cersei glanced at the maester out of the corner of her eyes before giving him a small nod and a miniscule upward tick of her lips. Lips that are as red as her house's sigil he bemusedly noted before turning his attention to the grounds where two men sparred with all the ferocity of their birthrights: that of a crowned stag and a roaring lion.

Cersei eyes danced over the figure with aurulent hair, striking fiercely at his opponent, who boasted hair as dark as a moonless night. The man's coal eyes glowed with an inner fire as he blocked each stroke, the clashing of steel nearly drowning out the gasps of the crowd that watched. While normally this would illicit a derisive snort from Cersei, followed by a scathing comment about her lessers, today her grip upon the edge of the terrace tightened, white knuckles standing in stark contrast to her painted nails. After all, it was not every day one got to watch the golden prince bare his fangs against the black stag.

A soft cough slightly behind her made the queen jump, the deadly dance below having enraptured her. Turning to face the aged man fully, she graced him with a soft smile. "My sincerest apologies, grand maester. My attention was focused on the duel below. Now, how may I assist you?"

A stray gust blew a strand of hair from Cersei's elegant coils and danced tantalizingly close to the grand maester's face. The soft scent of roses played at the edge of his perception as he waved away the apology. "Nonsense, your highness. I admit, I too have been enraptured by their duel. I have not seen the two fight with this much vigor in a long time." He paused for a moment as the golden lion performed a particularly flamboyant flourish, to the great amusement of the crowd. "Your father has sent word. I know you wished to know right away." From beneath the folds of his robes he procured a gilded scroll, sealed with scarlet wax in the shape of a dancing lion.

Cersei hesitated for the briefest of moments before grasping the scroll. "Thank you Pycelle. I will send word to you on the morrow about a reply." She turned back towards the grounds but her eyes remained clouded and unseeing, the letter slowly crumpling in her hands. She heard a soft "Your grace" and the tinkling of chains as the maester left, but did not turn. Her eyes remained fixed upon the grounds, where the black haired boy was bowing towards the stands even as the other boy glared murderously at him.

'Oh my sweet, sweet boys. What am I to do with you?' Cersei thought as her grip upon the letter tightened. Jofferey and Tommen, almost as if they sensed their mothers' thoughts turned as one and gazed upon the queen. She gave them both a smile, the corner of her lips tugging upwards in a convincing mimicry of the real thing. As the great septs bells began to blanket the city like the coming night, Cersei fled the burning gaze of her sons, letter still clenched in white-knuckled fists.

In the stands, a lord wearing the embroidery of a soaring eagle studied the scene thoughtfully, looking slowly between the two princes. Deep within his subconscious, treasonous thoughts began to stir and questions began to bubble.

* * *

I think I have an inkling of a plot now. Just like last chapter this is un-beta'd and thus may contain spelling or grammatical errors. Thanks to both Marah Lane and Master of Dragons God for reviewing. If you have any suggestions, comments, corrections, etc. feel free to leave a review.


	3. The Beginning of the End

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to A Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire-all are properties of George R. R. Martin. I am writing this merely for my own entertainment.

Those Sweet Summer Days: Part I

The Beginning of the End

The torches burned merrily in their iron sconces, flames gently licking the brick walls and casting an orange pallor on any who passed through their warm embrace. Tommen paused at the edge, where night warred with the light, half of his tunic illuminated by the dancing embers. He turned around to face his companion, shining obsidian flecks in a sea of white peering out from the shadows before asking in an unusually solemn voice. "Are you sure you want to do this? The rest of the city, it's nothing like the keep."

Myrcella stared resolutely at her brother before nodding, eyes reflecting the flames and burning with desire. "You've told me so many tales of what's beyond these walls and I just can't wait any—mphh!" Her words were cut off as she found her brothers' palm slapped over her mouth and she was pushed into an alcove in the wall. Above them, the moon shined brightly through an open slit, wrapping them in silvery light. The princess stumbled as she moved backwards, and only her brother's weight kept her upright—sandwiched as she was between unyielding stone and hard leather. On her lips, she could feel the soft pounding of his heart and the taste of something vaguely metallic.

Despite her outburst, the night remained quiet, the only sounds being the distant clanking of metallic boots upon stone and the gentle hum of ocean waves. "Do you know the meaning of sneaking, dear sister?" His eyes fixed her with a stern, level gaze, but his voice retained its teasing lilt. "It means we must be quiet and NOT shout."

Myrcella, her hair looking like pooled moonlight beneath the cloudless sky, stared demurely downwards, cheeks flushing as she realized she had nearly ended their adventure before it began. Her right hand nervously tugged at a golden lock that smelled of summer rains as she softly apologized. "I'm sorry, I just got so caught up in the moment. It's just..." She bit her lip. "It's like the song's don't you think? The knight stealing away the princess in the middle of the night?"

Tommen chuckled as he gently forced her to meet his gaze, "Aye, and in the song's the knight is never caught. So shall we depart, your highness?" He took a step back and offered her his hand, and in that moment, with his skin glowing like a falling star beneath the crescent moon, Myrcella thought there had never lived a more gallant knight, or a kinder brother.

Further down the hallway, outside of the flickering embrace of the torches, a guard stopped and surveyed the scene before smiling and continuing his patrol, a flowing white cape gently kissing the ground behind him.

* * *

The second the pair passed the portcullis into the city proper, the stench hit them with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Despite the gentle caress of the ocean breeze carrying the scent of brine and salt, the smell of a hundred thousand unwashed bodies, human and animal refuse, and rotting matter, mixed to create a pungent cocktail that nearly overwhelmed them both.

Myrcella wrinkled her nose as she brought a delicate gilded glass vial up to her face, the scent of roses momentarily overwhelming the pervasive aroma of the city. Tommen laughed as he offered her his arm. "I've been to the city half a hundred times, and still the scent bothers me." His eyes crinkled a bit, "But I must say you're taking this much better than I did my first time. I must have spewed half a dozen times before I reached the tavern." As they walked he pointed out the spots, some of which were still discolored.

The princess, bundled in an old threadbare cloak patched with a myriad of colorful threads, laughed. "Please, don't tell me that brother. I'm having trouble enough keeping myself together as is!" From beneath her hood, her eyes gleamed like mirrors, reflecting the winking flames of the torches that lined the street.

The street below them shifted from artfully crafted cobbled stone to well trodden dirt paths as they continued to chat, their laughs mingling with the raucous sounds of the night. As they approached their destination, the prince covered his distinctive obsidian mane with his hood, before giving a bow to his sister. "This, my dear sister, is the most lively tavern in all of Kingslanding! I know at least two ships from Braavos came in tonight, and I think one of the captain's owes me a drink. Perhaps we can get them to tell us tales of their travels?" He flashed an infectious grin as they both reached out towards the worn oaken doors of _The Sailor's Kiss_. Above them, a weather worn sign with the likeness of a scantily clad mermaid twirled in the ocean's breeze, the once vivid paints faded to a pale shadow. The oak was warm to the touch and as they gently pushed, the sounds of laughter, music and shouting came rushing out as the doors creaked open. At the sound, a sensation of giddiness poured over the two siblings. Tonight, they were not royalty, nor did they hold the obligations of seven kingdoms over their head. Tonight, they were merely children and the sense of liberation was a rush like no other.

* * *

This chapter is unfinished, I just wanted to post something tonight. I plan on revising it and continuing sometime this weekend. I might also change tommen's name, if anyone have suggestions as to what might fit better I would gladly hear them? Ideally it would be the name of some past Baratheon. As usual, unbeta'd and may thus contain spelling or grammatical errors

Thanks to sp90Tango, marah lane and guest for reviewing. Sp90: I'm considering making the chapters longer, however that will make updates much more sporadic. Marah: thanks for the kind words! I'm glad you enjoy my imagery. Guest: She is more content with her husband, and as such she has given him a trueborn heir. But she has loved her brother since they were teenagers and still believes him to be the only one that can complete her. Jofferey will be less psychotic, but I wouldn't hope for too much. My general impression of him was that he is psychotic due to his genes more than his upbringing, and nurture can only combat one's nature so much.

Finally a question to whoever's been reading—would you prefer I continue these small near daily updates or sporadic larger updates? If you've got comments, questions, corrections, etc. feel free to leave a review.


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